Step by Step/Issue 50
This is Issue #50 of ''Step by Step''. This is the second issue of Volume Nine. Lord's Blood ---- Two female servants dressed crudely in rags stood at the edge of the bedroom of the junior Smith mansion as their masters faced each other naked at the other edge. Cleon whimpered like a dog. "Humiliated by both uncle and wife!" "I did, but only to see your reaction," Irene said, and gently kissed his shoulder, pressing her warm body against his naked back as they both faced the nightly scene from the window, which stood facing the fields of crops and slave huts, having belonged to a family with heavy purse, now seized by the Smith family. "You question my love for you!" "You know what I think, that that old bitch thinks?" "What?" "That I'm too good for him. Where he does one man in, I do two in. I'm always a step ahead of him, and while he's addicted to the crowd, he feels threatened by my presence." "Perhaps." "You see how he gazes at me during meetings, if he invites me at all, how he refers to me as nephew so casually, as if he'd not spent the past years calling me son." "Yet, you call me wife, and that's what matters most." Cleon kissed her hands on his shoulders. "You're my light, you know that." "Your father does see you as a threat." "But to what, to him?" "He lives at death's doormat, awaiting a response, yet you are young," Irene said, soothing his neck with her lips, touching tongue to his ear. "Most people adore the sight of a rising sun, not that of a sunset." "You kiss, but offer little substance. Now, what are the rumors?" "He thinks men who once tugged at his fat breast for milk and favors are worthy of leading the cause." "Forget the cause, I desire respect—we are blood, after all—yet he burns me and then kicks sand in my eyes." Irene spun her lover around, resting his hung head on her chest, embracing the defeated son, a man whose aching heart she felt pounding against hers, a recurrence during their lovemaking, and during most intimate of moments. "And I stand here to wipe it from them," she said. "You'll inquire about the rumors?" "I'll listen to the gossip, as always, keep you informed." Cleon played with the locks of her brown hair. "I execute those slaves tomorrow in your name." "Publicly, for the bringer of dawn." "And give him what he wants, a fingering while I kneel at his waist, begging for more humiliation." "Make it for the people." The people, Cleon thought, those patriots of the cause in this kingdom of saints and sinners. There was no excess of politics in south Indiana, the towns of Smith's Ferry and the surrounding provinces. The machine of politics churned heavily, concentrated in the hands of few, yet dependent on the many. Hundreds of thousands sang the name Rockefeller, and such blood fed the cult behind him. There was no need for elections like in the days of old oppression if the public's voice was fulfilled. A man with an army, a man with a following, was key to what the latter-day politician needed most if he sought survival. "Me and you, we will rise high." "Our troubles washing away as we rise to greatness." "Thank you." "The way you slashed that man, so enticing." "So?" "Delicious to the eyes." "He was a top-ranking soldier from the days of old. A man from the platoon driven out by my uncle. How he survived these years is beyond me, but a fleeting detail." "A man reduced to animal," Irene flirted, her voice soothing to ears, tongue sharp on his face. "To live a life so memorably with honor and potential, yet to meet a lowly, cheap demise." "My hands slay enemies, yet it's me who is being slain, slowly, effortlessly, by those I love." "I love you more," Irene began grabbing on his body, slowly, effortlessly as Cleon went limp with hot sensation. "And I will be there when your name is cheered by the thousands." "I'll show him off." "We'll show him, that uncle of yours." "Did you not see the slaves, among them a gift certain to give rise to my uncle?" "What of them?" "A fallen man, words of whom are long old, but certain to refresh my uncle's ears. Tomorrow what's left of six slaves will be presented as glorious sacrifice, and in those six lies a special treasure, a traitorous infidel—Lyle Jackson!" "You speak that name!" "A name too dusty for tongue," he said. "One to be put to rest for the greater yield of honor and prestige." "They will call you the death dealer." "Who reaped the soul of a once-upon-a-time villain?" "Pleased his uncle." "The people's king." "And became leader of a great new world." She pulled at his arms, tugging away from the window, throwing both their bodies onto the nearby bed, and the star-crossed couple made love under the roof in which envy had dwelt for the past decade. ---- "You think I'm a coward!" "That likes the taste of shit kicked in his mouth," Nolan barked to Lyle, chained by arms tied upward next to Derek, as were four other men, one lifeless, in a discarded shack in the thick of the fields. A single door ushered view of the midnight, the breath of a pair of guards, and provided resting place for the eyes of Hector and Gordon. By the door was the tied corpse of the cross-wearing man, reduced from soldier to decoration. The slave king, silent, had not trembled out of his long hour's sleep. Lyle remained silent. "Mouth filled with their shit, and then you let them dangle and piss on your face," pressed Nolan. "You sin in silence, I see it in your face, your eyes. To take shit from the men we once trusted." "I can't fix the wrongs I've done." "You fear him, you respect Cleon, the shit who offends us with each breath!" "He provides food." "Yet now he seeks your blood for pleasure." "To that, I am glad. Years spent moaning for death, and now she nears." Nolan scoffed loudly. "We once were men, you know." "I know nothing but pain, hunger, and patience." "Yet you easily disregard caring for your brothers." "Don't talk to me about brotherhood, you only offer insults." "I offer a chance to redeem yourself," Nolan bit him, "from the shit-grinner you've become." "Don't you call me no shit-grinner." "A shit-grinning son of a bitch cock-sucker. That's what I see, forged by your hands alone." "You call me selfish, how about you complaining only now because the man's going to come collect our names?" "I've seen the way he looks at you, Jacky," said Derek, waking as the slave king beside him yawned. "You ain't so tough. Takes real courage for a coward to admit what he is." "I only admit to defeat." "The best medicine for shame," remarked the slave king. "You pray, Lyle, I hear you pray at night like you used to," said Nolan, with his friend sighing in discomfort. "So what?" Lyle closed his eyes. "I stir in bed, pray as I wake, and it does no good. So accept defeat for once in your life, as I have, that's the only reason I haven't lost my mind yet, 'cause I've made peace." Derek cursed him to God almighty. Nolan, knowing it true, yet was too afraid to accept it. "And swallow it with guilt!" "As I do," said Lyle, his voice breaking with raw sadness, and the guards outside began to tremble with awful chant, singing along the tune carried throughout the wasteland of south Indiana, lyrics meant to please the bringer of dawn, the wretched tyrant. On that night, the six unholy men in the shadow of empire awaited fate, listening to the before-death hymn of the thousands who before them had last listened in moments leading up to the bitter end. For Lyle Jackson, such an end had only taken a shaved decade, and as he bit back tears, invisible in the dark midnight of the room to the others, he wished he had done enough to quell his friend's hopes so that they might perish with ease come the next day, for there was nothing more sorrowful than to die with blood on face and hope on tongue. "We call upon ye, bringer of dawn," the guards sang, and the tune was carried by Hector and Gordon, ever-so blinded. ---- When things had calmed, the still-breathing corpse of Lyle, ashes and dust under flesh, awoke to morning light, was unchained, splashed with water, and thrown onto the outside dirt, stripped to emaciated skin and bone, and was covered merely with rags for crotch warmth. The guards produced the other prisoners, with Hector and Gordon wailing still for mercy, pleading in the name of the bringer of dawn to swoop down, pluck them up in his talons, to be carried to life as it once was. The men were placed on a dark wagon, a thick red like that of wine, and were set on path to the inner city. Lyle bothered a quick glance around the fields, yet failed to find interest among the slaves, for each continued plowing, picking, absent thought, full of labor and instinct, two things which kept them alive a little longer. He faced the morning sun once more, closed eyes, and fell asleep, eager to enjoy the peace of a boring ride. ---- Four new bodyguards arrived outside the royal tent, and Red would have them wait. He broke his slumber at the butt-crack of dawn, recited his father's prayer to the cause on bent knee, and was served his warm bread and goblet of morning wine by the servant Patrick, the soldier he so trusted to spare with life oh so many years ago, only to use him as a strap for his cock and balls. He spent the early morning hours massaging Red's scalp, washing his feet, and kissing the toes, something Red noticed had begun to happen the month prior when Patrick had been invited to view the work of the executioner on a rebel. Such routine prepared him for the day's pissing and shitting. He would deal with the generals, deal with the messengers, lift cheerful heart of the crowds with his presence, and tend to matters of family. "The cigars are ready?" he asked Patrick. "As am I." Red looked him over, patted him on the shoulder. "The new day brings light to errands. What of the gossip?" "Much praise for the governor of the east Bloc." "I set my expectations low." Red stretched out his arms and allowed Patrick to lather him with cologne. "What good could that Drake do?" "He cleanses the last rebel filth by crucifying dozens in the marketplace." "The marketplace!" Red's nose stung at the thought, more so by the cologne, a stench thicker than breast. "Has he no decency?" "Yet he follows the people's word, as a true leader must." "The people speak, he follows to please them, a noble strategist. An established general, man of rank—and how goes his family?" "His daughters celebrate their birthday." "Where so?" "Marketplace." "In the marketplace!" "He seeks public favor," Patrick spoke, yet the rascal venom in voice that Red had so seen when sparing him during the early days of massacre. Red roared with ironic laughter, his cheeks oozing glee. "A noble politician, and with children. Did he receive invite?" "As did all the governors, in between their local affairs—the Beekman brother rolls heads with the deaths of the rebel leaders, and the governor of the southern Bloc plans further military boots into old Kentucky, adding to the current encampments." "To what purpose, does he not listen to my word, is my word not feared?" "It's almost of necessity to have a rebellious man in battle. Who else to keep strategy from stagnation and fault?" With a mean glare, Red walked and stopped by the table, the map fresh, and the king of southern Indiana once chuckled. "Among those executed, how many were once my brothers?" "Excuse me?" "I now no longer fear death, but I now fear life. Many have told me with their actions, movements, the ways in which they act when certain words are said, that this reign of mine, forget about of the people, is rich for the vultures, end of story. But wherein lies the desire to take what is mine, my Patrick?" "You speak of assassins." "I speak of assumptions. Answer my question." "One of those crucified used to be your clerk as mayor." "And?" "Another was the priest at last year's wedding for your nephew." Red placed both hands on the map, covering the United States, his forehead producing mere sweat. "I speak of men who would lie, cheat, and steal to covet what I have created from dust, the glory of thousands struck down, lands conquered, cause fulfilled, out of jealousy." "Bram's told me as much." "The games will show me the path to heir." Red dropped eyes toward the servant, yet dismissed such a thought. "Your Cleon offers promise." Red scoffed. "The way he stares at me so spitefully during meetings with generals, top officials, which I arrange to allow him opportunity to gain prestige. He's stopped calling me father!" "He hosts a spectacle this morning in front of the Town Hall." "Of what does the jester plan?" "Something sure to draw eyes." "What?" "The crucifixion of troublesome slaves." "So original, so Cleon!" Red roared. "And he believes he can buy my favor with cheap executions!" Patrick prepared for the coming storm and flinched as Red began pounding on the table, bashing it bare, cursing his nephew. "He seeks your approval—!" "And he seeks it ever so," Red said, a sense of calm in his voice, raising hand to face, drying tears on his cheeks, and sunlight shone on his weary face, lined with long year, for the tent door was opened by the guard. "Visitor to see the king!" Patrick looked to Red with ignorance. "You didn't advise me of a visitor," he said. "Nor was I advised." Red straightened himself and positioned by the table's edge, a man aware of his back as a target for knives. "You will set up travel to see Cleon's gift, so that I may inspect it of worth, and weigh the value." "Your will," said servant. "The bodyguards will accompany you as if with their loving father. And I hope you measure them of their loyalties and see them strong, as Bram did." "Where will you go?" "To the Town Hall." "You're a good man, Patrick," said Red. "A good man." Patrick exited the tent, and behind him followed the guard with a silhouette of affection, slim and face thirsty for love, a lady whose bite was worse than her bark, dressed today better than other days in a red dress, as if she were to church or to wedding. "You are excused," Red said to the guard. "Rockefeller, what do I tell your new men, the bodyguards?" "Tell them to drink," said Irene. "To celebrate the good life, and await the descent of their god, the bringer of dawn." "As the lover says," said Red, and the guard bowed and exited. "You show women respect," snarled Irene as she approached Red, caressing his forearm with soothing touch and warm embrace, "but not so to your bloodline." "I respect those who are true in my eyes," he said, bringing her against bloated chest, somewhere in which a heart began to throb hot, as his face burnt red with passion. She waited, forever gripped in grasp, yet a young flower against aging bark. "I know by those eyes that you're happy." "You've heard of the games?" "Of the cause, I do pray," she said, hugging the man before walking to face the skulls and dangling assortment of bones. "Long into the night when all a lover can do is rest beside her equal, I prayed to you, the bringer of dawn, howled at the moon, and the sky reddened, much as your face," she continued, breathing life into him with passing word. "And then I hear people cheering, cheering as if free under the red sky." "I've heard of the public's arousal." "And you take it as a sign for your games?" "Games to celebrate the coming of dawn, honey." "Or does the rooster crow for another reason?" "Cleon's visibly sore over rumors, is he not?" "Then why must you pain him?" "He is but the traitor, and I the noble leader," he pointed to the map. "A great empire cultivated out of oppression, corruption, and wrongdoing for the people's power, and I but the god entrusted with its fate." "What fate?" "Fate!" "The gladiator games serve what purpose, Rockefeller?" "Oh, to knight the proper heir to proper throne!" Red said. "I no son of my own, Cleon lacks maturity, and the people desire a god to replace the hole to soon be opened in their hearts. They love me, Irene." "Cleon is worthy," she spat, eyes filing with dark greed and ripe with opportunity. "My heir lies in four loyal pawns turned governors, never with a hothead like Cleon. Forget him." Irene stood consumed with patience, waited a moment. "Cleon will have patronage under a governor." "Never!" "Perhaps Blaine, here in Smith's Ferry. He deals with Cleon over matters of produce and slave purchases and will surely grant Cleon some control over his team of fighters." "Never, Irene, that boy will never see, feel or touch the throne," Red said, and Irene sensed him out of breath, crawling towards him, hauling her arms over his shoulders and around his neck, bringing her lips to his, relaxing against his stiffening, surprised body. "Cleon's a good nephew." "He is." "And I'm a good wife?" "You look out for him." "And he just can't wait for his uncle to come and receive the loving gift he's laid out for him." "Cheap executions." "Come and see them, you'll get what you didn't wish for, but have been nonetheless hoping for." "We'll see," Red said, and by then her dress had fallen to heel, baring her brown hair against olive skin, revealing to old eyes the treasures of young age, ripe breasts and tender thighs with a patch of hair over her breeding blade, a thing that worried Red as she tumbled him onto the ground, splayed out his arms and holding him down by the wrists, his dying face engaged with hers of youth. "He loves you, Rocky. And he'll show his worth tomorrow." "He will." Irene let her face come to his, wrapping lips in kiss. "Let my empire burn and the people sing," Red soothed his voice. "Here, with you, is all I need." "And you are all I need." With that, the two lovers consumed each other with maddening pairs of kisses, the rubbing of flesh over the tent's groundsheet, as the eyeless skull of a brother betrayed and denied burial, condemned to be hung as trophy, watched and rolled as his brother enjoyed the moment, savoring pleasure from depths excessively mined, as the lady roared with joy and desire, yet in her the thoughts of conquering someone's seat at the table of knights and princes. ---- The governor of Smith's Ferry rested much the night, awoke to a bed empty of lover, yawning with passion. Nights quickly gave way to morning for him, for his days had become tasteless with age, much like worn horse hooves. The Town Hall was home to the central assembly of statesmen, the Party of oligarchs disguised in military fatigues. Blaine, skin rough with time's decay, slumbered in what was the old mayor's office, a gift from Red for his new appointed role. The years after Red had concentrated the power produced riches and decadence, and the other blocs of the empire had grown envious of the capital's success. Blaine, as he awoke to another day of administration and paperwork, gulped the same feeling down his throat, burying the burning desires to his belly, a pit of quelled thoughts of overthrow. Facing the window at the edge of the office, Blaine stood a man with much pain. A pain for excitement, a search for glory, a lust for the sex and parties his superiors indulged in daily, yet his love was restricted to the Party, had to be restricted, for it was a lease on the dog. Once a deputy officer for the town police, Red had given him title of governor. In knighting him, Red had castrated Blaine, for he had no one to love, much less a family of his own. Each day was a new depression, a further ten foot drop into the hole in his heart. As he overlooked the stage platform outside, he heard the morning birds caw. Saw the people gathering, rejoicing Red's name as the god of water, the banisher of drought. "Hot damn," Blaine spat, his voice rigid with western accent. "You slept well?" "Like a baby," he responded, turning to face the voice's owner as morning light shone on his back, his body naked and formed oddly with aged fat, some fifty odd pounds of stress and hard liquor. He maintained his long stature, yet there were cracks in his foundation, numerous scars from horrible bruisings, those common on the boiled skin of veteran soldiers. Once in the days of deputy officer, Blaine had seen the fruits of war, those sweet and rotten, decayed to stench. Bombs bursting in air. Men running across fields. The enemies fleeing as frightened cockroaches. Everything gained for this empire came from sweat, suffering, and death, the rashes of disease. "I bring message from Rockefeller," said Patrick. "He sends his bell-boy?" "Yes." "Save the breath," Blaine yawned, scratching the hair on his fattened chest as he put on a pair of loose pants to cover his dry sack. "I know about the rebels, the spies, the executions. I know about the games to be hosted by the bringer, and how do you believe I know all this before you did?" "Why?" "Because I'm a child of the bringer of dawn, his eyes and ears." "You know of the slave executions by Cleon set for this morning?" Blaine nodded with a smirk of meddling. "And you have a team of fighters at the ready?" "For what?" "The major league games between governors." "Of course not," said Blaine, covering hairy chest with shirt and fur coat, sliding the belt tight on his waist. "I won't kneel at his feet for some drops of urine and glory." "You don't seek glory?" "I'm a man who seeks no more, for I've got it all—the mayor's house, the money, the ladies, about thirty flavors!" "The fruits of the cause." "Mistaken; the fruits of war." "He'll expect you there." "Because I'm the governor." "And he fancies you to be the prince." "So the rumors are true?" Blaine laughed and walked past the expanse of the bedroom, a guest room in the mayor's mansion converted for caged animal with wooden barrels of gold and silver assortments in each, treasures of war and the spoils not yet leaving stench. "Cleon won't taste the crown?" "Nor will Rockefeller allow it." "So the nephew doesn't get a taste, but the uncle tastes his wife?" "You musn't speak of it." "Why bother?" Blaine said, and the point was his, for if his neck was to be hung by rope or sliced by knife, he would die fat and happy, as any Party official would from the hands of executioner. "Rockefeller barks, but doesn't bite. His minions own the teeth." "Which is why he favors you." "Speak clearly." "He fears, as some fear, I included, that a gang of few are plotting his violent death." A sudden laugh erupted from Blaine's throat. He walked to Patrick, a man hardened through war and witness to atrocities that turned the heavens dark, and patted his shoulder twice, then once for good luck. "You'll have Cleon's gift wrapped by this afternoon?" "I'll set the coliseum and stir up a crowd." "Make it a mob." "Cleon really thinks he has a chance by sucking all six inches?" "It's a stretch, but a lot more than we've tried." Blaine barked that golden laugh. "Hot damn, son. The coliseum awaits the bringer of dawn for Cleon's gifts, then," he said truthfully. "As it always does with open arms." ---- The prince did not lie about the coliseum being pleased to host the king of dawn. The clock had struck thirteen in the day. A brilliant sun warmed the stadium, used for baseball in past years to pass time, yet brimming now with guards and the filth of slaves, packaged and delivered for the entertainment of peasantry. The road leading to the front entrance divided left and right, exposing parking lots converted into mass hordes of tents. Two giant collections of wooden wagons and metal cages rested in each lot, filling it with choruses of moans and groans. There they were, a hundred of moaning skeletons, hoping for light, begging in the dark, pressing against the bars of cages like flies to spoiled food, the healthiest standing up front with arms sticking out, waving like twigs, just behind them the exhausted ones too tired to stand, yet howling through hollowed breath. A pack of children, their blue shirts draped with red scarves, pointed to the caged masses, calling them smelly, laughing as jackals over wounded animal. At the entrance, a horde of proletariat, men and women dressed in beige pants and blue shirts with red ties, passing through ticket booths. Entrance to the coliseum was free, yet a cost was surely to be paid in blood, as was typical of all games since inception. The crowds of eyeballs would later return profit, soon when the dust had settled, so that a prince had enough armor to wear over heart. On the street a hired preacher dirtied with sweat sung his tune, grilling each passerby for a moment's time as he shoved pamphlets in faces, in hands, papers lined with words of victory, the name of a long-ago criminal plastered boldly on each. Above him on the balcony, a troupe of uniformed ladies blew trumpets in a flourish of music, feeding starving ears of countrymen with beautiful anthem of the early days of empire, at first used to solidify the crowd, yet now used to control the mob, keep them stomping towards the stadium like masses of fruit flies, attracted to the anthem of days past for the soothing of ached bones and wavering hearts. The afternoon sun watched, glaring at the stretch of road as it swelled with crowd, a stretching mass of thousands approaching the stadium, the bodies uniformed and barking chants of hot cheer. The mob traveled as one, pushing into the stadium, past the checkpoints, driven by bare curiosity and unsatisfied throats, dry of blood, thirsty for the red wine. Cleon Smith braved the smell of adrenaline and the roars of a thousand mouths, a music superior to the anthem. The voice of the people made him tremble with glee and blush at the face. The mob was before him, and he would see them fed well this day. He did not order space from Blaine to use the coliseum to please his uncle, those days were over. From now this day forth, Cleon would be the respected prince, the throne to be within smelling distance. The moment the flesh of Lyle Jackson was slashed to the roar of the crowd would be the moment Cleon would be made a new man. He had yet to see the man in the loading basement under the stadium. With glory on his mind, Cleon pushed away from the balcony, leaving the anthem to echo in his background, an itching tune that reminded him of his uncle, the fat bastard who had already taken one of his manhoods, and would not live to take the other. Calm and breathing easy, Cleon followed the stairs and entered the second story lobby of the stadium, a great room fitted with giant windows and lively portraits of his uncle. The big man was watching him always. The lobby contained dozens of uniformed individuals. He found a familiar face, a guard from his wedding who, as a personal favor, had tasted his champagne. "Sir!" "Guard, how's crowd control? "The men are fed and the women are calm." "Any stains?" The guard shook his head, understanding. "Sir, the crowd is conformed to Party quality." "Have you seen my wife?" The guard shook his head. "Where are the slaves being kept?" "Sir, you wish to see them?" "My slaves, led me to them." "Oh, wow." "Led me to them." "I believe your uncle just arrived." Cleon twisted around and saw an entourage of four men clad in collarless black shirts and loose charcoal trousers, as if each was wearing the darkness of night. Around their necks were scarves a deep red that stabbed into Cleon's eyes. As the mass of men dispersed, a clean and oiled man appeared at the center, his cheeks fat and teeth gnawing, a wolf dressed in a plain buttoned coat, bulging around the belly and chest. Behind him, the wall of crowd roared to elevation. The savior to calm tension, the spinner of the needle that needed exercise every odd month to ward off corruption of the masses' heart from ounce of doubt toward the divine produced from lessened ration sizes, a popular occurrence since the last year, blamed not on the bringer of dawn, but on the rebels themselves. Red Smith, striding gallantly like an armored battle horse, knew how to spin the needle, for the street's gossip was the spit from his tongue. One of the four bodyguards stabbed the air with a shiny sword. "He is alive!" The crowd of uniforms cheered. Another bodyguard raised a fist into the air. An ugly guard, Jack Wallace, secured position standing beside Red Smith. He wore that thick white scar on Italian cheek, a stain he swore was born by slash of knife, but by whom, no word. Cleon registered the Italian securing position beside Red Smith, matching smile of his protectee with pale teeth. The other guards continued cheering, engulfed by the roar of the uniforms, and Jack rubbed elbows with Red. He had made acquaintance with him over the journey, no doubt in Cleon's mind. This Italian. Which asshole had he been pulled from? Out of a whore house from the outskirts of empire, wherein army camps lied in stalemate, awaiting blood in the water, and order from the bringer. Such had now been the case for months. Jack Wallace stood firm, smiling ever still, his chest muscles bulging under uniform. He was a small one in the past, quiet and wavering, and had the guts of a two-faced coward. Red Smith returned smiles and laughter, laying arm over the soldier's neck to share in the pride of celebration. That was a careful act of Red's appreciation. The time had come for the new man to hold a great life in his grasp, the light of the proletariat, and prove himself a sword to beast and man who would try to smother it. The Italian had not wavered this day. Red Smith had taken his time with exposed flesh, waited an hour after the girl had slipped away, and then addressed his new band of protectors. Three of the four were red-faced and complaining, and then once they saw the king approach, they quieted like children scolded, fools caught blushing. The three ran over to greet Red, and he allowed each a hand. The Italian was the only one to greet Red with a novel palm, with eyes so kind, and Red would not have known until told by the man that he had been a deserter, shortly after the wars had begun. His family had been the one to enter him to the police. He had been a member of the Band. Desertion was a sin to the Party, but man was mortal and sin was mortal, so some time in the hands of the state did well to cleanse him. The soldier told Red Smith of the months he spent blindfolded and hands tied. Unable to see, the state had thrown him into a hole for months. There he was scolded, told he had been a noble soldier, yet was now a dog, a mutt, a disgrace. There had been times of silence, whispers, and Jack would call out, terrified and sweaty, pleading for God, and then he would be doused with a bucket of water, to drink and bathe. With starved belly, the Italian had been hauled out of the hole, darker than an asshole, and was taken to his church in the capital. Seated, he was untied. Scared, a hand removed the cloth from his eyes, and revealed to him was the golden portrait of the bringer of dawn, the immortal, fat and impeccable face of Red Smith. The priest splashed him with holy water, blessed him gently, and informed him that his father had suffered a heart attack, passing away the night before. Where was mother? The priest smiled and pointed to the portrait, for she had gone to dedicate charity to Him. In the father's will, words of pride and courage to urge on his son. He was their only son, and their only offering to the empire. He spent the first year as a restored man working odd jobs. His parents must become proud of him, he thought, so he enlisted in the Band. He spoke to Red Smith of his struggle. Commandeering a band as a field officer, Jack Wallace had been one drop of gasoline in the barrel of fuel that fed the growing empire of liberation. Jack spoke proudly. His platoon had liberated thousands with gunfire against the tyrant armies of the old guard. Red Smith had asked him of his struggle. Did the enemy shoot you? No, the Italian had shook his nod. He could barely afford time to pray nightly to the bringer of dawn. Red Smith had smiled. And what now? Who did you serve up until today? The Italian had smiled. As with most men whose hearts were gripped with youthful militarism, Jack Wallace had been promoted from loyal soldier to fervent Party secretary of agriculture in the west Bloc. So the Beekman idiot? Another nod. Now, Red Smith stood in this lobby, his lungs stabbing with disease, with an Italian to catch him if he were to collapse. Red Smith caught eye with his red-faced nephew. He spoke a word to Jack Wallace, patted him on shoulder, and the Italian strode forward. He whispered to the three bodyguards. The crowd rumbled with savage cheer. Red Smith had not dropped eye with the nephew, and when the bodyguards deafened their celebratory roar, the four men covered Red on his sides, walked him through the lobby, and the Italian pointed to a corner room. With a deep breath of humility, Cleon followed the men. Seeing Cleon depart, the guard gulped a knot in his throat. To the common man, Red Smith removed the pebbles in his shoe in exchange for fidelity. To Cleon Smith, the uncle was a ghost haunting his life. This guard had noticed the disappointment in the eyes of Cleon Smith when his uncle had arrived. After his wedding with the pretty Irene, he had been posted to their bedroom door. The honeymoon was of noises of shared glee, but the words of conspiracy by blade spoken could not be ignored. A year had passed and this guard lived with the secret. It was an ugly, upsetting conspiracy. And internally, this guard was happy. He was happy to see the growth of rot from treason from within. And soon, he hoped to smile proudly for it. But now as the mobs cheered, and his smile feared to form, the guard unhooked a shiny sword from his waist and rose it to the ceiling, saluting another day of breath for the aged bringer of dawn. ---- Cleon Smith entered the corner room and found a long table for meetings with an assortment of chairs. Two bodyguards stood outside and closed the door. The third bodyguard remained by Cleon. "Take him," the nephew said to Jack Wallace, who held Red Smith by the plump forearm, seating him at the chair at the end of the table. For the first time in a month Cleon had seen his uncle and the man had grown to a paler form. He did not wonder further of what disease was striking the uncle, but rather pondered how this would move the man's heart. The exhausted leader of thousands crooked a finger to Jack Wallace, brought him closer, whispered harmlessly, and the Italian nodded. The Italian spoke easily. "The bringer of dawn is pleased by all offerings. He is most pleased when the offering comes from a member of blood." He glanced to the left of Cleon and nodded towards the bodyguard. The bodyguard placed a firm hand on Cleon's shoulder, forcing his weight down, and pushed him onto a seat at the table. "But was this necessary?" the Italian asked. "If we play these executions out here or in a slum town to the south, the difference would be none." Cleon, intimidated by the bodyguard's firm press on his shoulder, spoke. "Uncle, let's speak in private." Red Smith squeezed his face and angrily shook his head on bloated neck. He placed a fleshy hand on the table. Cleon noticed pain his face. "You must trust these men as I do, for they are protectors of grace. One day they will be your cane to walk a daughter down the aisle." The nephew was understanding. "I'm honored to be your only blood," Cleon began, speaking loudly for the guards to hear. "I have made a living aiding the cause. I have leadership over herds of enemy workers, men and women who dream to usher in our fall, who I put to work for the betterment of our crops, the people's crops. For years I have seen thousands in the capital fed." Red Smith raised his hand, a balled fist. "Enemy workers, no. They are oppressors turned inside out." Cleon, blushed with uncertainty, continued. "I provide for this cause as a good, humble worker. Sometimes too much to compensate for favoritism in the eyes of fellow workers. Yet believe me, I am a good partisan to the cause. When I realized the value of what slaves laid before mine eyes I could not turn the cheek. The day's gift will breathe life into the lungs of the proletariat!" Outside the crowd's cheers rose, and Cleon Smith hesitantly smiled. Red Smith closed his eyes as if thinking, then whispered coolly to the Italian. The second bodyguard tightened his grip on the shoulder. The kid was no longer a kid, thought the patriarch. Red Smith smiled deeply. "Five slaves," he said. "What of them?" "It will be a pleasurable surprise." Cleon took hold of his uncle's palm on the table and pressed warmly. "As to you, and as to the people." "You do not see me as worthy?" "It is a past enemy." "A rebel?" "Of long ago." "There is no taste in old treats." Cleon lowered his head, bowing it in respect, pressing the uncle's palm. "It is a man. A man who represents the old stains of the old guard. A man who was once an ally to trade, but only to money. His heart was of gold. A worker against the old guard, but a traitorous man in the dark. An asshole who narrowly snuffed out the light of the people by attempting to snatch the life of the great liberator, you. You, my uncle. It will bring great pride to the people, this death." Red Smith bent his neck slightly, as if exposing it to blade. His eyes grew steady and hard, and Cleon stared into them, his face loosing the flush, consumed by a sickly pale. A silence chilled the room and the crowd's brutal cheer began to deafen. Red Smith looked to Jack Wallace, ushered him closer, and whispered. The uncle stared without fear into his nephew's soul as he finished whispering. Finally the uncle pressed Cleon's palm, crossing their fingers. "Nephew, you helped me plant the seeds of this cause, my nephew," he said, "and you have watered it without miss, and for you my love is strong, but until this day it has never been so alive. Trust me my nephew. You seek something. You fear to tell me out of avoiding embarrassment." As expected the eyes of Cleon Smith grew huge with greed. He had taken the worm by the mouth and Red Smith would prepare him for the tug of the string. Seeing visions dancing in his mind, Red Smith reached for the nephew's forearm, the guard loosened grip on the shoulder, and Cleon was pulled forward. "You come to me for love, my nephew," said old Red Smith. Cleon said gulping, "I need a promotion. Where I can better aid the cause." Red Smith gently released his nephew and the guard hauled him back by the shoulder. Looking to the guard, he said, "He turned twelve the day after the soldiers rode in. His mother and father swore to keep warm as the cold blew in, swore to clothe him when the looting began, swore to bathe him and fed him when the devils rationed water and food. The enemy at the walls was less a threat when the winds of cruelty churned strong within our community. Ignacio, how did it feel when I went to see you that night?" "I was unsure," said the guard. "Then you took me by the hand and my mother cried. You said I had the eyes of my papa." Red Smith held a cold face, but his lips formed a sweet grin over wrinkled skin. "Ignacio, aged twelve. He and the Band launched the first attack against the devils, entering the hospital and taking it over from the soldiers. That gun was heavy, but that little boy could carry it, and he persisted, Ignacio?" Ignacio nodded and to his surprise, some tears fell on Cleon's shoulder. Red Smith smiled to Cleon, face at peace, and he said, "You see nephew, my love is here. A twelve year old boy, from the rags of oppression to the uniform as a lieutenant on the south Bloc, now serving his father, grown old and weak. That is promotion by love. I have love, Cleon." Cleon Smith nodded, but shrugged. "Anyway to help you, I'm here." Old Red retreated his hand from the table. "The day will come," he said with a throat anchored by age, "when you will be called upon. But that is not this day. Today we have the people enjoy your spectacle, and some weeks from now I will consider accepting your apology." Cleon's face sagged with guilty disgrace. "Uncle!" he said, "I cannot tell you who the slaves are!" Red Smith put an end to the whines by raising a hand, pointing to the door, and Ignacio jerked Cleon upward with a grunt. The nephew was hot with astonishment. He understood something was amiss; the problem was not the identity of the condemned. Red formed a fist and whipped the table. "I am insulted," he said. "What did I do to deserve this punch to the dick? I have always been kind, always a reasonable man. But if you expected me to willingly watch one of your executions, five out of the thousands in a year, then think again, you thought wrong, my nephew. I am a reasonable man, but not a whore to be bought with spare change." "But uncle!" Red Smith said, "And, nephew. A word from my mouth to be respected. Don't put your henchmen up to any more scare tactics. Next time I will treat it as terrorism." "What?" "Your boys brought me a slave with false prophesy," he said. "Ones foretelling my demise," Red said, and his voice grew cold. "Continue with this behavior and you will be sanctioned." Cleon pleaded, "They went behind my back on that." "Sanctioned!" The door opened and Cleon Smith barely budged as he was hauled outside. The Italian closed the door and faced his master, who dragged a long, fat hand across his face to wipe it dry of tears. "I cannot go on," said Red, and the Italian rushed to his aid. "You will stay for the show?" "To put a good face on the event," Red mumbled, his blood chilling at the thought of not doing as much. It could damage the family name, lower his prestige, and spur rumors from the gold mouths of Party officials to the rotted mouths of the bottom classes. The Italian asked him to consider feeding the nephew's greed. "Never." Red Smith beat the table once more, and then passionately ordered Jack Wallace to burn him a cigar, one of the many he would need that day. How could he endure the embarrassment without them? The people would cheer on the simple blood sports. Red Smith felt grim. The powerful politician snakes around him would see that the old patriarch's flame was dying, and his little lion Cleon would be eager to pounce onto the throne. He would be easy to manipulate. Easy to steer. The Italian nodded, and understandingly struck his cigar with fire. Did he regret never having a son? Red Smith shook his head, puffing calmly. It would be worse. "Are you that unwell?" asked Jack Wallace, yet he knew the answer. Red Smith, his face powdered and pale, was a man diseased, and the look he bore to the Italian was that of a condemned man who knew that an assassination's blade would arrive too late to claim his life. "The slave's name was Malcolm," said Red Smith, bowing his head to carry it with weak hands. "Foretelling the death of a king. Am I a king?" The Italian shook his head piously. "You are a statesman for the many," Jack said. "And I would support you on paper if it were needed. But such things aren't needed anymore, why those are things of the past. Violent ideas, uncivilized things. Inventions used by the old powerful few to subjugate the many. You are handsome, beautiful, a man to be praised," he ended, and Red Smith grabbed him by the wrist. "Oh child," he said. "I feel I'm becoming a god." There was a pronounced hurt on Jack Wallace's face. A man fighting his inner pain at being witness to the living decomposition of his role model of a leader. The crowds would continue as the sun would rise and fall, but the light inside Red was slowly burning, a heart inflamed with age and lungs depressed with disease. Under his teary eyes, Jack Wallace imagined the void of Red's passing, and thoughts of filling that hole with his boots. If he could fill it fast enough, he would act the very morning he discovered Red Smith dead in bed while the body was still warm. Jack Wallace now looked into Red Smith's eyes and said, "Praise be to you, my leader." From the lobby there was a great roar, and the two men were startled. The door opened, and Ignacio entered. Outside stood Cleon braving the growing crowd of hundreds passing into the lobby for the main event. Using a charming tongue he prepared them, salted them with propaganda, and hoped that the mothers and fathers in the crowd would remember this day, and bless him by voicing their support around town. Red Smith continued to kiss the cigar and stared endlessly at the hungry political animal until Ignacio closed the door. ---- =Issues= Category:Step by Step Category:Category:Step by Step Issues Category:Issues